Page 90 of The Wrong Man

On screen, something explodes dramatically. Neither of us flinch.

Okay. I am going to do it. I am going to turn my head and close the distance and press my lips to his and it will be totally normal and not at all terrifying.

Any second now.

Right now.

Now.

My body refuses to cooperate. I am frozen in place, staring blankly at the television, every muscle locked with indecision. The moment stretches on, endless and excruciating, while I silently berate myself for being such a coward.

It is just a kiss. Just a press of mouths. People do it all the time without having complete mental breakdowns beforehand. I used to kiss people. Back before all this, back when I had a normal life and a bakery and the ability to walk outside. Kissing was not a big deal then.

But that was different. Those were casual encounters with men I did not really know, quick fumbles in dark clubs or awkward dates that never led anywhere interesting. This is Dante. This is my captor, my protector, the man who bought me cookbooks and threatened to kill his friend to keep me safe.

This is someone who might actually matter.

No. No, he does not matter. He cannot matter. This is a game, a manipulation, a calculated move toward freedom. Whatever feelings are swirling in my chest are just confusion and Stockholm syndrome and the effects of too much whiskey.

Dante shifts beside me, and our thighs press more firmly together. Heat blooms through my entire body.

Holy Mary, I need to just do it. Stop thinking, stop spiraling, stop finding reasons to hesitate. Lean over and kiss him and let the chips fall where they may.

I turn my head slightly, building up courage, gathering my nerve. My lips part to say something, though I have no idea what. Maybe his name. Maybe some flimsy excuse about needing to stretch. Maybe just a strangled noise of panic as my throat closes up entirely.

And then Dante turns toward me.

His dark eyes find mine, and whatever he was going to say dies on his lips. For a moment we just stare at each other, barely six inches apart, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his irises and how thick his eyelashes are.

He opens his mouth to speak.

I do not let him finish.

My body moves before my brain can catch up, lurching forward with all the grace of a startled deer. I throw myself at him, hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, mouth crashing against his with more desperation than finesse.

For one horrible, eternal second, nothing happens. Dante goes completely still beneath me, rigid with surprise, and I have just enough time to think, oh God what have I done, before everything changes.

His hand comes up to grip my waist. His fingers dig into my hips, firm and possessive, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. And then he is kissing me back.

Oh.

Oh sweet merciful heavens.

This is nothing like the clumsy fumbles of my past. Nothing like the awkward dates or the forgettable encounters in club bathrooms. This is something else entirely. Something that sends electricity sparking down my spine and steals the air from my lungs.

Dante kisses like he means it. Like I am the only thing in the world that matters. His mouth moves against mine with slow, deliberate intent, taking control of the kiss without any apparent effort. One of his hands slides up my back to cup the nape of my neck, tilting my head to a better angle, and I make a sound that is frankly embarrassing.

He tastes like whiskey and something darker, something that is purely him. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, a question and a demand all at once, and I open for him without hesitation. The first stroke of his tongue against mine sends a shudder through my entire body.

This is supposed to be for the plan. This is supposed to be manipulation. But I cannot think about plans or manipulation or anything at all except the feel of his mouth on mine and the strength of his hands holding me in place.

Nobody has ever kissed me like this.

Like I am precious. Like I am wanted. Like he has been waiting his whole life for exactly this moment and now that it is here, he intends to savor every second.

He angles my head further back, deepening the kiss, and I clutch at his shoulders for balance. The new position brings our chests flush together. I can feel his heart pounding, nearly as fast as my own, and the knowledge that he is just as affected as I am makes something hot and desperate coil low in my belly.

I used to think swooning was ridiculous. Something that only happened in overwritten romance novels and period dramas. No real person actually swooned. That was absurd. Theatrical. Completely divorced from actual reality.